These are the last and random days of summer
Flecks of whiteness hanging on
Clover, yarrow, ragged rose
Tissues, masks. Convolvulus
goes winding through the dry and brown
Remains of plants that flowered high
And branching in Victoria Park
There’s an egret in the pond
Like an angel - hanging on
Swift and swallows ... they have gone
The sky is white with whitish clouds
Ragged daisies - petals torn.
A testing marquee stands forlorn
Fungi growing from the wood
Of alder trees like bloated toes
Gleaming as September light
Shines weakly and this special year
Turns wearily towards the dark and cold
Still ragged - but its hanging on
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